


Wedding Story

by boxparade



Series: Apartment Story [1]
Category: Panic At The Disco, Young Veins
Genre: Dancing, M/M, Post-Split, Songfic, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2011-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:48:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxparade/pseuds/boxparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Spencer, I’m freaking out,” Ryan declares the moment Spencer appears in the room, his eyes comically wide but his expression and voice so flat that Spencer would wonder, if he hadn’t known Ryan for a thousand years, if Ryan were being sarcastic.</p><p> </p><p>Can be read as stand-alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wedding Story

“Brendon, will you _be still_ for a second?” Spencer hisses, and Brendon giggles and completely fails to stop moving. He’s punch drunk and being ridiculous, and Spencer will not feel bad in the slightest if Brendon has a hundred tiny bleeding holes in his chest because he couldn’t calm down long enough for Spencer to pin his flowers on. Who thought up of putting flowers on suits, anyway?

“Can’t we just go?” Brendon asks impatiently, tapping his foot as if Spencer is the one holding him up here, and Spencer shoots him a smoldering glare. Or at least what he hopes is smoldering. The bad kind, not the sexy kind. The _I’m so pissed at you right now you don’t even know_ kind. Whichever it is, Brendon doesn’t seem to notice, but he does sigh impatiently and in some stroke of pure luck, Spencer finally gets the damn pin fastened. His fingers aren’t even bleeding anymore. He counts that as a win.

“Okay, let’s go,” he announces, and swipes the keys off the counter before moving swiftly toward the door. Brendon is rolling his eyes and acting put-upon, but he’s smiling warmly so Spencer knows they’re fine. “If we’re late, it’s totally your fault,” Spencer adds for good measure, and Brendon sticks out his tongue and pinches Spencer’s arm before taking off ahead of him, bolting down the stairs two at a time. Spencer would be bitching at him about running recklessly in a really nice suit, but he’s a bit distracted by Brendon’s ass in that suit, because damn.

Plus Brendon’s face lights up like a Christmas tree when he slides into the limo and immediately starts tracing the color-changing rope lights with his fingers like they’re magic, like he’s never been in a limo before. Despite the fact that his boyfriend is an annoying son of a bitch without a shred of common sense, he kind of makes up for it with pure enthusiasm.

 

“Spencer, I’m freaking out,” Ryan declares the moment Spencer appears in the room, his eyes comically wide but his expression and voice so flat that Spencer would wonder, if he hadn’t known Ryan for a thousand years, if Ryan were being sarcastic.

“You’re not allowed to freak out, it’s my turn to freak out. The next fifteen minutes are totally my freak-out time,” Jon cuts in from somewhere else in the room, and Spencer wonders when it stopped being surprising to him that his bandmates materialized out of nowhere in a room sometimes.

“No, because you had an entire hour to freak out this morning while I was asleep, I’m totally allotted more collective freak-out time than you,” Ryan argues, turning around to face Jon with his hands on his hips, cocked out to the right a bit.

Spencer’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be a part of this conversation, or at least deferring it somehow, so he says “Can the next fifteen minutes be _my_ freak-out time?”

“You don’t get freak-out time,” Ryan shoots back, blinking at Spencer in a way that says _That should be obvious_ and _You should really fix this right now okay please_.

“Why not?”

“You’re not getting married,” Jon answers, and tries to ignore the shudder that runs down his body.

“I’m the best friend of the guy getting married, I should totally be allowed freak-out time. If only because I have to deal with all his freaking out.” Spencer figures the best way to distract them is to keep on talking in circles until it starts and there isn’t any more time _to_ freak out.

“What about my freaking out? Who gets to deal with my freaking out?” Jon pouts.

“I’w deaw wif your fweaking out, Jonwalker.” Brendon bounces in, grinning around a mouthful of pastry and licking his fingers of bright green frosting, one by one. Spencer tames the thing in his pants and tries to remember that there is a time and place for everything, and now is definitely not a good time to fuck Brendon into a wall and lick the taste of frosting from his mouth.

“Why thank you, Brendonurie,” Jon tries to copy the way Brendon manages to say his name all as one word and mostly fails. It’s the fact that he tries at all that tells Spencer exactly how nervous he is.

“Do we really have time for all this freaking out?” Spencer voices the question to deaf ears, because Ryan is bitching at Brendon about raiding the kitchen before the reception’s even started, and Brendon is trying to pretend like he didn’t just walk in covered in cake and frosting that he somehow, miraculously, kept off his suit.

Then there’s something like a knock but way more tentative, and someone’s poking their head in and telling them to hurry the fuck up, and then Jon and Ryan _really_ start freaking out until Spencer threatens to make them get married breathing into paper bags and shoves them both out the door.

He has a moment to look back and catch Brendon grinning madly, and there’s a bit of green frosting on his lower lip that Spencer kisses off, and then they’re being dragged out the door too, laughing and giddy and tumbling into the sunlight and the clear blue sky, forgetting where they’re meant to stand. If this were anyone else’s wedding, they’d be getting glares from every direction, but it’s not, it’s Ryan and Jon’s and everyone here is smiling like a million suns because this is _them._

The ceremony is quick, and painless, and Ryan stumbles over his vows and looks _happy_ about it, which is something that never would’ve happened without Jon. Jon grins and says his few, short lines that aren’t nearly as poetic as Ryan’s metaphorical verse, but still have a kind of beauty in their stunted simplicity.

Then the dude that’s officiating—Spencer can’t really remember what he is, but he’s not a priest, just some guy who works for the state and marries people—says his little bit about love and honor and then there’s kissing, and Jon and Ryan are both smiling when they finally go for it, and their teeth clack and their hands flutter and it dissolves into helpless laughter halfway through but it’s perfect.

They walk down the aisle, hands cupped over their eyes against the sun, and people are clapping and Spencer’s pretty sure his mom is crying, and he would probably make fun of her for it later but then someone might point out the way his eyes sparkled a little more than usual right around the time Jon’s voice cracked on _forever._

He and Brendon walk behind Jon and Ryan, hand in hand and completely obvious, grinning so hard their cheeks will hurt for days because this only gets to happen once.

They skip the line of people waiting to congratulate Jon and Ryan, instead weave their way around flowers and fence posts and children and Spencer traps Brendon against the back of the fancy portable bathrooms with his arms, kissing his jaw and his neck and his ears and not his lips.

“So romantic, Spencer Smith,” Brendon mouths against Spencer’s skin, breath hot and sticky and tingling, “make love to me against the port-o-potties.”

Spencer laughs and bites Brendon’s ear, huffs indignantly “They’re the fancy kind, they don’t even smell, shut up,” and kisses him quiet.

They stop themselves before it gets too lewd considering they’re out in the open and there’s a high potential of impressionable children running around the corner, and it’s a pretty hefty feat with the way Brendon’s eyes are wild and his hair is even more ridiculous than before. Spencer’s tie is loose and lopsided and too messed up to fix without undoing it completely, and Brendon keeps reaching in to try to take the ends from Spencer.

Spencer bats his hands away repeatedly, cocks an eyebrow at Brendon, says “I’m a big boy, I can tie my tie all by myself.”

Brendon snorts, pats Spencer on the cheek. “You just keep telling yourself that,” he says and walks away. Spencer rolls his eyes and ties his tie a little looser than before. He doesn’t expect it’ll last the rest of the night, but it might make it another hour or two.

When Spencer finally meanders back to the main event, everyone’s accumulating in a nice shaded tent out back and seating themselves at tables. He picks out his family at one of the tables next to the plyboard dance floor, his mother chatting with someone Spencer thinks is from Jon’s side and Jackie and Crystal are trying to position themselves so Mom and Dad can’t see them pour themselves some wine.

He comes up to Brendon at the head table from behind, places a hand at the back of his neck to let him know he’s there as he waves his hands around frantically and talks about music with someone Jon knows from Chicago. Spencer’s seat is next to Ryan, three down from Brendon and with a prim little name tag placed above his plate. 

Spencer decides that’s dumb just as Brendon is wrapping up his conversation, smacks Jon lightly on the back of the head and says “Switch seats with me, dumb ass.”

“Hey,” Jon complains, turning around and giving Spencer what is supposed to be the evil eye, which fails spectacularly because he’s got a permanent elation hijacking all his expressions. “You can’t do that to me, I’m the groom.”

“And I’m the best man that planned _both_ your bachelor parties because you feared for your life with what Brendon would’ve had you do, so get up.”

Jon laughs, knows when he’s beat, and shifts over to the seat on the other side of Ryan without ever actually losing any point of contact with Ryan. Spencer plops himself down next to Brendon and tries to keep from placing his hand on Brendon’s thigh lest he slide it up, slow as hell, to the point where he’s too hard when it’s time to stand and give his little speech. He convinces himself there’s a good reason to when Brendon’s knee starts shaking, almost like he knew what Spencer was thinking, and Spencer grips it down by his knee and waits for Brendon to still beside him. He doesn’t move his hand.

The food is buffet style, and all the tables go up in order, piling their plates high with the most normal food they can find. It was Spencer’s suggestion to add in the simpler, somewhat recognizable things like bite-size corn dogs and mashed potatoes. All of Ryan’s choices had been from random ends of the earth, and Spencer swears he sees a frog leg in one of the green dishes and skips past it quickly. Some are more adventurous, getting some of everything, but Spencer’s the one that actually has to stay put together long enough to ensure that Ryan makes it on the plane to Greece before the end of the night, and he doesn’t want to spend his time curled around the toilet while Ryan gets himself lost in O’Hare for the fourth time.

Spencer doesn’t remember that he should probably be nervous about his little speech thing until Brendon’s standing up and clearing his throat and commanding attention with all the naturalness of a lead singer, starts into a little ditty about Jon filled with twisted jokes and Disney references and anecdotes about late nights and sexy times that have most of the parents in the room covering their children’s ears while trying not to laugh.

It’s brilliant, and funny, and so Jon, so _them_ that Spencer forgets for a moment that this whole shebang is about Jon and Ryan, pulls Brendon down by his tie and kisses him with laughter.

He stands up next after Ryan kicks him under the table, pulls out his little paper thing and tries to forget the fact that there’s a reason he chose drums, a reason he hides behind the kit in the back of the stage all the time. He starts off awkward and stilted and nervous, but this is Ryan, and before long he finds himself laughing at his own stupid speech, trying to cram over twenty years of friendship into a few short sentences. But it gets through, and people are laughing and Ryan is _actually blushing_ , which makes Spencer proud and a little bit cocky, amping it up a notch and ending in a flourish with a thinly-masked metaphor for the freaky, kinky sex Spencer knows way too much about and a jab about his surprise and relief that there isn’t a spot of paisley to be had on Ryan’s suit, except maybe on the thong.

Ryan’s not wearing a thong, which unfortunately, Spencer knows quite certainly, but it has Ryan incoherent and embarrassed in all the best ways, and everyone’s laughing and a little bit tipsy, so it’s okay.

Then there is food, and an excessive amount of wine-glass tapping calling for kisses, most of it Brendon’s doing, and there are more of the green pastry desserts Brendon had earlier that give Spencer the brilliant idea to kiss Brendon quiet the next time he starts tapping his wine glass. Jon and Ryan are being ridiculous and romantic and there is cake-cutting and cake-smashing in each other’s faces, and Brendon is mourning the destruction of a perfect, beautiful cake of a guitar and a bass leaning against one another that Spencer always thought looked kind of like a dick, but never said.

Then there’s dancing, and Ryan and Jon are horrible and they step on each other’s toes on purpose because it’s not like they’re going to be any better if they try, and Spencer and Brendon are the next ones out, Spencer attempting to show Ryan up in camaraderie but mostly just looking mentally deficient because Brendon can’t follow to save his life.

They make their way off the dance floor eventually, carefully timing it so that they’re on the other side of the room when Pete finally makes his way to the square of plywood and starts skulking around for dance partners. Brendon gets pulled away by everyone and their grandmother, sometimes about their new album and sometimes about things completely unrelated to anything. Spencer finds himself wrapped up in fifty different conversations, most of them about Ryan, some about their childhood, some about their music career, a select few about the split that Spencer wheedles his way out of quickly. Then before he knows it, he’s wrapped up by his mother in the literal sense, squeezing a little too tightly and talking in gasps that Spencer knows mean she’s a little hysterical.

He spends three minutes calming her down and when she’s finally coherent enough to speak in full sentences, she drops a bombshell with “That was just a lovely ceremony. It warms my heart to see Ryan—and Jon—so happy, after all these years, and you’d better hurry up and ask Brendon to marry you before I forget all the flower places and cake specialists and have to plan a wedding from scratch all over again. One was enough, thank you very much.”

Spencer chokes on his drink and spends the next two minutes coughing his lungs up while his mother pats his back and keeps repeating with a gleeful sort of sick amusement “Come on, dear, man up. It’s not like you haven’t thought about it.”

And no, actually, he _hasn’t_ thought about it, not even with all the craziness for Ryan’s wedding, but now, because his mother is evil, it’s _all_ he can think about. His eyes find Brendon amongst the throng of people and like magnetism, he finds himself drifting away from his mother and over to where his boyfriend is attempting to teach a seven-year-old the waltz.

He shakes his head, smiles, watches Brendon try to dance bent over, tiny white shoes balancing on the ends of his sleek black ones, airy giggles and curls flying everywhere. It’s there, suddenly, like a weight in his stomach, not unpleasant but solid and strong, and he thinks _yeah._

Brendon catches his eye, graduates the girl from the basics of the waltz and pushes her gently off in the direction of Dallon, telling her to go show what she’s learned to him because Brendon knows it’ll be a laugh watching Dallon try to dance with a seven-year-old when he could hardly manage to with Breezy.

There have been a lot of weddings, Spencer thinks, and lets Brendon kiss him chastely. “You fixin’ for another dance, Spencer Smith?”

Spencer grins and shakes his head. “Just watching.”

“Watching?” Brendon quirks a playful eyebrow.

Spencer shrugs. “You. The crowd. Ryan and Jon. You all make for some pretty good entertainment.”

Brendon’s grin twists into something predatory, and it is still way too early in the night to even look twice at that look, but it doesn’t really stop Spencer from wrapping an arm around Brendon’s waist, tugging him toward the edge of the tent in the dimming light, mumbling “Come on, Mr. Dance Instructor, teach me some new moves." 

It really shouldn’t be sexy, the way Brendon snorts, then bats his eyelashes and quips in his most falsely-innocent voice “Oh, Spencer, will you stop loving me when I have no more moves to teach?”

Spencer rolls his eyes, pulls Brendon closer to his side, and thinks _Like that’ll ever happen_ but doesn’t say it.

 

The evening passes in a rush, and whether it’s because Spencer nearly worked a hand into Brendon’s pants just outside the tent, squeezed in next to the rolling refrigerator the catering service used to store the desserts, or because Spencer maintained enough sense to drag Brendon bodily into the house and into the only off-limit room, which just so happened to be Ryan and Jon’s room, before pressing him against the door and blowing him. Jon and Ryan wouldn’t be seeing this room for the next two weeks, that gave Spencer plenty of time to clean up any traces. Not that Ryan would notice anything; he’d probably just assume it was from him and Jon, which is disgusting, Spencer, what the fuck, not something to think about while your boyfriend is mouthing against your dick through the fabric of your suit.

Spencer manages to stop Brendon and himself from completely destroying the only good suit he has, and Spencer’s sure he’s not the only one that feels like a horny teenager as they straighten up and make themselves look somewhat presentable, leaving Ryan and Jon’s room separately and going out different doors.

When people start heading home, which is about the same time the wine has all been had, it’s left to Spencer and Brendon to herd out the late stragglers, lead sleepy-eyed children to the arms of their parents and make sure cars pull away safely into the night. Spencer’s family is one of the last to leave, his mother doting and listening to Spencer reassure her at least four times that she doesn’t need to stay and clean up the mess, Brendon and Spencer are going to bring the important stuff in and leave the rest to clean in the morning. 

When they leave, it’s finally quiet, or something like it, the thick blanket of summer air filled with cricket chirps and cicada hums settling over them, and Spencer curls his fingers into Brendon and leans into his side as they make their way over to the bench that Jon and Ryan found and promptly set up camp on, sleeping with heads on shoulders and legs twined together.

It seems cruel to wake them, after the day they’ve had, but Spencer’s a firm believer that Ryan deserves to share his pain and exhaustion for all the years Spencer’s been putting up with him, and Jon was stupid enough to marry the bastard so he might as well take his fair share, as well. They’re foggy and a little confused when they wake, but it’s okay because it’s just the four of them, no distractions or complications. SpencerAndBrendon and JonAndRyan, two pairs that still held the rough shape of _four,_ as Jon and Ryan follow Spencer and Brendon around the house.

There’s a limo waiting out front, already packed with Jon and Ryan’s bags, and Spencer rushes around, hands them their plane tickets and their hotel reservations and everything they could possibly need so that even if they’re asleep, they won’t get lost in a foreign country. It was their decision to leave the night of the wedding, something Ryan said about the importance of maintaining tradition while expanding social boundaries. Spencer called him stupid and said it was his grave, then booked the flight and arranged for a limo to be waiting there when they needed it.

Safely sprawled in the back of the limo, already half asleep, Spencer nods at the driver to take them to O’Hare and to drive slowly, and Spencer’s worried that they’re going to be too tired and disoriented to manage security and all the crazy shit in the airport, but Jon opens his eyes, meets Spencer’s, gives him a thumbs up with the hand that isn’t crushed somewhere under Ryan’s lax body, and then closes his eyes and rests his cheek against the top of Ryan’s head.

Spencer smiles with the last bit of energy he has, watches the limo pull around the corner, and lets Brendon tug him back into the house, up the stairs and straight into the guest room they’ve basically been living in for weeks. Spencer tries to mumble something about changing but Brendon cuts him off with a press of still lips and a whispered breath of “Later, sleep first,” before they both tumble onto the bed still in their suits. Spencer manages to kick his shoes off, just barely, before he’s dead to the world, Brendon following him on swift wings.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this. And then I had to write other things because I am a college student and there are papers and classes and there is homework. And then I got stuck. And thennnnnnn I decided that this needed to be a series of (SHORT) fics. So this is the first of what I think is going to be a 4-part series. Of short stories. Yes.
> 
> Based off "Apartment Story" by The National. Not really sure if it's a songfic or not. It's based off the song? But I feel like songfics are something people don't like. Which is silly. But anyway.
> 
> Un-beta'd. As previously mentioned, I never got the invite to the super-secret fanfic writers' club. I don't know where to get a beta. The only reason I know what a beta is is because other people mention them. It's a little sad, really.


End file.
